


i náramillë nairë

by the_secret_wordsmith



Series: Middle-earth Drabbles [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Like mother like son, Mother-Son Relationship, Míriel centric, Regret, Sorrow, he gets it from his ma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 06:03:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19864714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_secret_wordsmith/pseuds/the_secret_wordsmith
Summary: Míriel Þerinde sat at her loom and wept. The halls of Mandos were quiet that evening and she was all alone in the large and vaulted hallway, thread and needle her only companions in the gloom.Thread and needle, and her regret-filled fëa, to be more precise.





	i náramillë nairë

**Author's Note:**

> Some Quenya Translations:
> 
> amillë - mother  
> fëa - spirit/soul  
> i - the  
> nairë - lament  
> nár - fire

Míriel Þerinde sat at her loom and wept. The halls of Mandos were quiet that evening and she was all alone in the large and vaulted hallway, thread and needle her only companions in the gloom.

Thread and needle, and her regret-filled fëa, to be more precise.

She had been heat and pride and stubbornness, and now she was only tears. Her son, her dearest beloved son. She had given him everything she had and he was just like her for it: passionate and proud and stubborn, and oh so quick to anger!

And he would rue it all, if ever he lived long enough to find such wisdom.

What an oath to swear! - and all his sons too. Poor sweet Nerdanel, she thought to herself, that poor sweet girl.

And poor Finwë too, she thought despite herself, and old wounds reopened as she thought of he whom she had loved so fiercely. She had had such joy and she had burnt it all away in her ferocity, her determination, her pig-headedness. Yet had it been worth it: to burn all her life force away to give her son such fire?

All this sorrow he was wreaking, all this havoc and grief; and she had paid for it all with her life and her happiness and that precious time she could have spent with him, if she had kept just a little of her fire for herself.

But she had given it all away in her stubbornness: to feed her son’s beautiful fëa. And now that same entirely beloved fëa was burning, brighter than any jewel his hands could ever make; and she wept for all that would turn to ash because of it.

Because of him.

Because of her.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading. Kudos and comments are very much appreciated, and you can find me on tumblr @thesecretwordsmith :)


End file.
